


cold mercies

by autumnstwilight (sewohayami)



Series: Ignoct Week 2019 [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Blind Ignis Scientia, Blood and Gore, Ignoct Week, Ignoct Week 2019, M/M, Murder Ignis, One Shot, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 05:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewohayami/pseuds/autumnstwilight
Summary: Later, Ignis would tell himself that he had only ever intended to apprehend the bandit, to take him to the Hunters for justice."He abandoned us when things got tough. Like father, like son. But daddy only left us to the Niffs. Your King has forsaken the world."For Ignoct Week Day 5: "bones break easily"





	cold mercies

He counted the breaths, charted the footsteps, measured the minute rustling of clothing, and came to the unavoidable conclusion. Noct was gone.

“Oh,” said the Niflheim chancellor, voice dripping with false sympathy, “I’m afraid that you’ve just missed him.”

“Where is he?” growled Gladio, and Ignis heard the crystalline sound of a greatsword being summoned. Beside him, Prompto gritted his teeth, his gloves squeaked against the grips of his guns.

“Alas, no longer in this world. Taken, by the Gods who chose him, to bathe in their light and be anointed as their King of Kings. However long  _ that _ takes. I’m afraid I don’t have high hopes for him.” Ardyn filled his words with sing-song amusement, but underneath it was something cold and bitter that could never quite be hidden. Something that caught Ignis’ senses like the distant, metallic echoes of the daemons still wandering the facility.

Noct was gone. He could sense the tension run through his companions, fear and anger, as they tried to comprehend it. Noct was  _ gone. _ Ignis had expected to have longer, thought that the Noct in his vision had looked older, hoped beyond hope that, even with his injuries to adjust to, they’d have time. Time to make plans. Time to— to _ live. _

Gladio and Prompto set upon Ardyn, ferociously, recklessly, fearlessly, but Ignis merely clenched his fist, trembling at the futility of it all. His murky vision was filled with an indistinct blue from all angles, a shade that filled the animal part of his mind with a well-learned fear. Memories of burning flesh. Of the first time he’d failed Noct. His daggers hacking and hacking at an endless mass of darkness that simply reformed, like the surface of water, while the light and flames ate away at his own body. No matter how much he desired to end Ardyn with his own hands, it could never happen. The hatred was almost too much to contain.

The catwalk creaked as Ardyn regained his footing, there was a rustle as he adjusted his clothing. He moved with the poise of a predator, the knowledge that nothing here could threaten him. Disdain, toward those he clearly considered unworthy of his time.

“I could kill you all now and end it,” he said in a softly dangerous tone, “Ask me nicely,  _ beg me, _ and I might even do it. Consider it a favor, in return for bringing him to me.”

“I’ve had enough of your  _ favors, _ you sick son of a bitch.” Prompto’s voice was trembling with a fury Ignis had never heard from him before. He wondered again what had transpired in the days and hours leading up when they found him, imprisoned in a room that both Noct and Gladio had refused to describe.

“Have it your way, then,” Ardyn replied, “You will see for yourself soon enough, what monsters the darkness makes of men.”

And then there was no trace of him, not even his footsteps.

* * *

It had been seven years since the Crystal had taken Noct, and nearing six since the day when the clouds had last parted to let in meager moments of sunlight. Everyone was worn around the edges, paler, thinner. Ignis too, felt as threadbare as the shirt on his back, and his jacket barely kept out the chill. Daemons stalked the darkness, but other things lay in wait as they pleased, hunger, fear, despair. And perhaps those things were even more dangerous.

On the outskirts of Lestallum, a woman had plunged a pocket knife into the power cable that ran to one of the exterior floodlights. Her scorched corpse had been pushed aside with unceremonious haste to repair their defenses.

That had led to his current mission. He carried a coiled length of cable scavenged from the Insomnia checkpoint, defunct now for years. The exodus had taken place before the night fell completely, and once it had, no one was bereft of their senses enough to consider a return. The Usurper had taken up residence in the Citadel, and his hellish subjects flocked to him.

He had hitchhiked with other Hunters from outpost to outpost, made his own way on foot between haven and haven. Other than the cable, he carried fish from Galdin Quay, pithed and bled, salted for the journey. Though it was limited without Noct nearby, he had at least retained the ability to store some ingredients the magical way. Useful, given what might be attracted by the scent of food.

And every spark of magic was like a gift. Capricious as the Gods were, there were some powers in Eos that had not abandoned them. His connection to the Crystal ran through Noct, as long as it remained, then his King was still alive. He struggled with the urge to pull out his daggers more than strictly necessary, to feel that electric hum in his veins, to pull what was left of Noctis close and feel his heartbeat, the only way he could. But the magic was a gift. He would not waste it.

There were other things that he’d scavenged from the Insomnia checkpoint. Lightbulbs, radio equipment, electronic devices that might contain rare metals. And, from the remnants of a vending machine, a single, familiarly shaped can, still sealed and undented.

He tried not to get his hopes up too much. Who knew what seven years in a can did to the taste of coffee, if it was still drinkable at all. There was a possibility it wasn’t even Ebony, the size and shape seemed correct, but it wasn’t as though he could read the label, or that he’d done meticulous comparisons of canned beverages when he did have his sight.

Perhaps he should just keep it then. The hope might be better than the drinking, the weight in his pocket a comfort and memento of better times. Or at least he could save it for a special occasion.

Then again, tomorrow could be the day when an iron giant smashed him into a bloody smear on the rocks. There was no prophecy to say that, when the King of Light returned, Ignis would be by his side. No divine intervention, only his own, human determination. Perhaps he should enjoy the meager pleasures where he could find them.

He was mulling it over when he heard the squeak of footsteps on sand. Human-paced, human-weighted. But suspicious. Moving just a little too fast, making a little too much effort to be quiet. Giving no greeting or call. They were getting close. He turned.

“Well, if it isn’t one of the royal brat’s little entourage. Reduced to scavenging like the rest of us.”

“Have you business with me?”

“I think I do. I think we all do,” the voice responded.

“And what would that be?”

“You’re a failure. You all are. Your King is gone. He ain’t coming back.”

Ignis took a breath. It was not the first time he had heard such sentiment, but he had endeavored to ignore it. The people were suffering immensely at the hands of something they did not understand. It was only natural that there would be anger, directed at any available target.

“They say you lost him in Niflheim. And what I figure is, either you fucked up, or he did. Maybe he abandoned us when things got tough. Like father, like son, you know? But daddy only left us to the Niffs. Your King has forsaken the world.”

“He has  _ not,” _ said Ignis, restraining the heat in his voice. “Call me a failure, if you will. But the King will return. It is ordained by the Gods.”

“There are no Gods.” There was the sound of someone spitting, of liquid hitting the ground. “Or at least nothing worth calling a God.”

“I would recommend caution. Such hubris is punished,” Ignis’ fingertips rose to trace the ridges of the scar on his cheek.

“And are you going to punish me?” A cold laugh, and the drawing of a weapon. “I don’t think so. I think you’re going to make this up to me and mine, as much as you can. Food, equipment, valuables. Hand them over.”

“I refuse. I work for the future of Eos, in his name.” The heartbeat lingered on the edge of his reach, his daggers ready to flash into his hands. Noct was always with him. But he would not call upon his liege for such a petty confrontation.

“Then die! Die, like your worthless, traitor King!”

The man came at him fast, but his movements were predictable. His sword sliced empty air as Ignis simply pivoted. There was a grunt, and then another swing that was only a slight improvement over the first. This was no matter.

But his blood ran hot in his veins. There was nothing before his eyes to drown out the image of Noct, his dear Noct, his beloved King, slumped lifeless on the throne. For people like  _ this. _ For a rotting world that didn’t care. For those cruel, silent Gods.

Ah,  _ fury. _ He had thought that he had long mastered his temper, tamped it down with neutral expressions and meaningless formalities, polished off the edges in training with rehearsed and cool precision, calculated strategy. Anger was rarely a useful emotion, liable to burn all without discrimination.

He had told himself that he would not be ruled by his anger, nor the desire for revenge. He would not let the world twist him into something dark and cruel. He was not Ardyn. Nor was he the monster that Ardyn had claimed humans would become.

The man in front of him, on the other hand. Human garbage, a rat who turned on others under the cover of night. People like this weren’t needed in the world. It felt good, darkly satisfying to pass that judgment, to hear the grunt of pain as he landed a knee to the gut.  _ Take him down, make it hurt. _ Later, he would tell himself that he had only ever intended to apprehend the bandit and take him to the Hunters for justice.

But even as the man doubled over in pain, he seized Ignis’ arm, with a grip stronger than expected. The sword lashed out again, and he felt the movement of air against his face as he bent backward to avoid it. But now his center of balance was off, and a twist of the grip on his arm forced him to the ground, pulling his opponent with him. They grappled with each other, Ignis trying to wrestle the sword from the man’s grip or at least prevent him from gaining the leverage to use it. 

Though he was no slouch in hand-to-hand combat, he’d always been more comfortable keeping his distance, and with his opponent armed, he lacked the advantage in this kind of inelegant bar-fight scrapping. The thief managed to roll them so that he was above Ignis, wrench his arm free, and swing his blade downward. Ignis was forced to summon a dagger and block with the flat. The man grunted in effort as they struggled, then spat in Ignis’ face. 

“Share that with your king in hell!”

Something pitch-dark twisted in Ignis’ gut, and without conscious thought, he had called his other dagger into his hand, crystalline shards materializing within the man’s belly, hand wrenching upward and outward. There was a sick, animal noise, choking, fearful pain. Hot blood poured and soaked through his clothing, something wet and meaty slopped onto on his abdomen. Ignis threw the man off of him, and he slumped where he landed, whimpering pathetically. It wasn’t unfamiliar, the agonized gasps, the rattling tremors of someone going into shock.

_ — on the throne, hands slipping from the hilt of his sword —  _

No, it was just him and the man, in the middle of nowhere. A man who was partially disemboweled, blood springing forth as though the liver or kidney had been pierced, intestines sliced open to spill their contents into the abdominal cavity. The Glaive’s healing magic was for their own. With civilian medical supplies as they were, the chances of surviving the ensuing infection were non-existent. That was, assuming the man didn’t bleed to death long before they reached the nearest outpost, which was by far the most likely scenario.

Left alone, the daemons would devour him, and perhaps it would not be entirely undeserved, given the likelihood that he had left others to the same fate. And that, too, would at least be swift. But— 

The man had rolled over weakly, so that he was sprawled face down in the dust, reaching out an arm as if he were trying to crawl away. Ignis settled his weight onto the man’s back, ignoring his feeble struggles, and traced gloved fingers over the back of his head, down to a small indent where the spine joined the skull. The blow must be forceful, the angle precise.

“I’m sorry,” he said, only to find that saying it didn’t make it any more true.

He drove his dagger into its target, and the man’s body seized, nerves firing of their own accord. Ignis held him down as his back arched, clasping the hilt of the dagger as the movement jostled it back and forth, blade rasping against bone.

Destruction of the brain stem was the quickest way to ensure unconsciousness and death. As grotesque as his spasming was, the man had probably ceased to perceive anything. No pain— or at least Ignis could tell himself so. A few seconds later, the body fell still and lifeless.

That left him alone, in the vast, murky wilds. Even the wind was silent, the scents and sounds of daemons too distant to perceive. His dagger dissolved in a crystalline burst, a dim and fleeting spot before his ruined eyes. But he thought of Noct, still, every time.

_ He isn’t here now, _ thought Ignis, and wondered if that made him feel better or worse about what had just transpired. He felt that somewhere, in the endless darkness, Ardyn was surely laughing at him.

There were no burials in the wilderness, not even for dear friends. Too dangerous to linger. He rolled the man onto his back, folded his arms over his chest, closed his eyes.  _ Sit tibi terra levis— may the earth not weigh you down. _ He supposed he could spare that modicum of trite goodwill. Then he left.

In the darkness and silence, it was difficult to perceive the passage of time. Perhaps he had walked for twenty minutes, perhaps an hour, when his hand reached for the solid weight of the can in his pocket. His fingers traced mindless circles, round and round the rim.

Eventually, he caved and withdrew the can, feeling for the pull tab. He cracked it open and listened to the liquid slosh, breathed in the scent that rose from the contents. It was, at least, still identifiably coffee. He raised it to his nose and inhaled more deeply. The familiar aroma took him back to a world that was still lush and green, voices and laughter beside him, and he quickly scrubbed his eyes on the back of his gloves.

_ I might have asked before, but... _

He raised the Ebony to his lips and wondered if it had always been this bitter.

**Author's Note:**

> I am somewhat dissatisfied with this piece but also at the point of just yelling and throwing it at AO3 so I can at least post it during Ignoct Week.
> 
> I have one more written.


End file.
